Three weeks.
It had been three long, quiet, tension-laced weeks since I fought Wonder Woman in Vienna.
Since I stained marble floors with blood, and spoke truths wrapped in steel. Since I screamed against the Lasso of Truth and broke apart under memories I didn't even know I still had.
Three weeks since the Justice League decided I was too dangerous to execute… and too tragic to abandon.
Rehabilitation.
That's what they called it.
But let's be honest—what they really meant was containment with extra cushions.
Still, I suppose I should be grateful. I'm not in a cell anymore. Not technically.
The Watchtower had seen enough of me. They said I needed to "reintegrate" and "build social connections" with people my age. Apparently, the idea of keeping a weaponized amnesiac demi-soldier like me locked up wasn't as appealing as giving me a chance to relearn humanity.
So they gave me a place to stay—"neutral ground," they called it.
A room in a facility I wasn't allowed to leave alone.
A bed with no locks on the frame.
A window with a beautiful view of absolutely nothing.
It wasn't a prison.
But it wasn't freedom either.
And now, after two weeks of lectures from Diana—excuse me, Wonder Woman—on "discipline, restraint, and the strength found in peace," I was finally being allowed to meet… them.
The so-called "Team."
Young heroes. Sidekicks. The protégés of the League.
I was told they were my age, or near enough. That they were the best of the best. A trial group designed to grow into something greater.
The thought didn't comfort me.
The thought of being around people—people I could hurt if I slipped—filled my stomach with quiet dread.
But I didn't say no.
Because part of me—a very small, traitorous part—was curious.
The Zeta-tube shimmered blue, and I stepped through the portal in a single stride.
"Recognized: Eva. Designation B-07."
I appeared in a wide, cave-like chamber—the heart of Mount Justice. The former headquarters of the Justice League, now retrofitted into a subterranean fortress for the younger generation of heroes.
The lights were warm. Softer than the Watchtower's sterile white.
The air smelled faintly of electricity and disinfectant.
The space buzzed faintly with life.
Footsteps echoed as I stepped off the pad, adjusting the leather wrap on my left wrist—more to fidget than anything else.
I heard them before I saw them. Voices.
"Is that her?"
"I heard she nearly killed Wonder Woman."
"No way. She's like, my size!"
"Shh—shut up, she can hear us."
I could.
I could hear everything.
Every footstep. Every breath. Every pulse in the air.
And I was already cataloging exits.
A door on the left.
A ventilation shaft above the control panel.
One window disguised as a rock formation, reinforced glass.
Twelve ways to escape. Nine ways to kill.
Old instincts.
Bad habits.
They still whispered.
"Eva," a voice called.
I turned.
Kaldur'ahm, the Atlantean. Broad-shouldered, poised. Eyes calm like the ocean before a storm. He approached with measured steps, arms loose at his sides, weapons sheathed.
"This is your first visit. Welcome to Mount Justice."
He extended a hand.
I stared at it.
Then shook.
Barely.
"...Thanks," I murmured.
"Come," he said. "The team is waiting."
He turned, and I followed.
Down a wide corridor carved into stone, its walls humming with old power and new technology. I could see glimpses of training arenas beyond reinforced doors. Sleeping quarters. A kitchen area. Monitors lined the walls—live feeds from cities I hadn't even memorized yet.
Then—the lounge.
Open. Circular. Lined with couches and screens. A giant holographic globe spun lazily in the center.
And they were there.
The team.
Robin sat perched casually on the back of a couch, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with curious, calculating eyes behind that red domino mask.
Beside him, Kid Flash stood with his trademark grin, hand already halfway to waving—bright, bold, the very definition of too much energy and not enough impulse control.
Superboy leaned silently against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched, radiating suspicion like a furnace. His eyes never left me.
And in the center, warm and inviting, stood Miss Martian, her posture open, hands clasped in front of her like a teacher welcoming a new student.
I paused at the edge of the room, the silence stretching for half a second too long before I stepped forward and spoke.
"Hello. You may call me Eva," I said, my tone polite but clipped. I inclined my head, eyes scanning each of them carefully—measuring. Cataloging.
Miss Martian smiled immediately, voice light and sincere. "Hello, Eva! I'm Miss Martian, but you can call me M'gann. Or Megan, if you'd like."
She stepped forward and extended her hand.
I took it, briefly. Warm. No hidden tension. No fear. Just kindness.
I hated how unfamiliar it felt.
The moment was interrupted by a blur of red and yellow stepping into my peripheral vision.
Kid Flash, if I remembered his file correctly. Speedster. Smart. A flirt. A bit of a loudmouth with a hero complex and a caffeine addiction. He smiled like he thought it could fix the world.
"Eva, huh?" he said, eyeing me up and down with zero subtlety. "Dangerous name. Dangerous look. So… you single, or is that blade of yours compensating for someone else's broken heart?"
I blinked once.
Then turned my head slowly, meeting his gaze without emotion.
"Is this your idea of charm," I asked flatly, "or a cry for help?"
Robin let out a stifled laugh from behind his glove. M'gann blinked in surprise. Superboy raised a single eyebrow.
Kid Flash, to his credit, didn't immediately back down. But he did falter.
He chuckled awkwardly. "Okay, okay. No need to go full ice queen on me—"
"Oh, I'm not being cold," I said, tone sharp as a scalpel. "If I wanted to be cold, I'd be ignoring you entirely."
Wally blinked.
"I'm engaging, which means I think you're still salvageable. Barely."
Robin actually choked on a laugh this time.
Superboy's smirk twitched for a split second before vanishing.
M'gann cleared her throat gently. "Wally, maybe give Eva some space? First impressions are important."
He raised both hands in surrender, grinning despite the bruise to his ego. "All right, all right. She's sharp. I can respect that."
I looked at him, deadpan.
"I wasn't asking for your respect."
The room went quiet again, awkward tension hanging in the air for a few seconds before Robin decided to break it.
"Well," he said, hopping down from the back of the couch, "that went better than most of our recruitment talks. At least no one ended up frozen, hypnotized, or decked in the jaw."
He extended a hand. "Robin. No secret identity stuff just yet. Good to meet you."
I took his hand briefly, noting the precise way he shook—firm, practiced, neutral. Not trust. Not threat. Just control.
He nodded.
"You're observant," I said.
He smiled behind his mask. "So are you."